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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Blowing
Although
Maybe
Heart
Like
Zeppelin
Zeppelins
Kitten
Butter

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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
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You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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